


being alive

by mercuryhatter



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Comfort, Dysphoria, M/M, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Oral Sex, Trans Male Character, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 19:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: a scene from Like A Secret In Your Throat by mirawonderfulstar.





	being alive

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Like A Secret in Your Throat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613402) by [mirawonderfulstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar). 



> me writing those tags: wow I don't know who I am anymore but somehow I don't mind 
> 
> I promise it's also extremely tender and loving and they are in love I just didn't know how to get that across in the tags 
> 
> "Aziraphale had gotten incredibly, mind-blowingly good at this in the few months since Crowley’s menstrual cycle, mostly banished by hrt, reasserted itself inconveniently while they’d been having dinner together. Aziraphale had looked at Crowley with concern and hesitation, and asked if he knew he was bleeding. He hadn’t, and he’d fully intended to apologize and hurry home, but Aziraphale had been gracious and curious and somehow they’d ended up in the flat above Aziraphale’s shop, Aziraphale’s head between his legs, lapping up blood and bringing Crowley off in what he’d been amazed to find was something that really, really worked for him. Crowley wasn’t usually very dysphoric, but bleeding, as rare as it had become, did tend to shoot that through the roof. He’d never even attempted to have sex with another partner during, but then, Aziraphale wasn’t another partner."
> 
> -Like a Secret in Your Throat, mirawonderfulstar, chapter two

Crowley truly hadn’t noticed until Aziraphale had pointed it out. His lower back and his knees had been hurting dully all day, but there were plenty more plausible reasons for that than his hormonal cycle being out to get him. In retrospect, he should have been able to call the ache coiled low in his gut for what it was the moment it started, but he’d never wanted to acknowledge this process before and the fact that it shouldn’t be happening at all only helped him ignore it further.

But then Aziraphale had cocked his head during dinner, looking suddenly concerned. He half rose from his chair, looking Crowley over quickly, then sat back down. He bit lightly at a stray cuticle before stopping himself, putting his hands back in his lap.

“Angel?” Crowley asked. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was thinking that he really should consider stopping getting tossed around in alleys if this was what it was going to do to his joints, still unaware.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, but… I mean, I hate to ask, I just wonder… my dear boy, do you know that you’re bleeding?”

“I’m what?” This time it was Crowley who stood up, looking over himself for a scrape he’d missed. At the shift in position, he felt something wet slide between his legs, and the reality hit him with the force of a fist to the face, followed quickly by a tangle of embarrassment, inexplicable guilt, disgust, and an overwhelming wave of _this isn’t fair, I was_ done _with this._  

“Shit,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, this wasn’t-- I didn’t think-- fuck, Aziraphale, I’m sorry, I’ll just--” 

“Stop.” Aziraphale darted around the table, placing his hand gently over Crowley’s where he was trying to disentangle his bag from the back of the chair. With deft movements, Aziraphale extricated it himself, and draped it carefully over Crowley’s shoulder, but didn’t let go of his hand. Crowley met his eyes with faint desperation. He was surprised to see none of his own emotions reflected in Aziraphale’s face. No disgust at all, only concern and love and an edge of-- curiosity? Hunger? It couldn’t be _arousal_ , Crowley thought, that would be impossible, but… it looked awfully close.

“Dear, I don’t want to presume, and you may of course leave if you like, but…” Aziraphale was gravitating closer to Crowley as he spoke, seeming unconscious of the gradual movement. “Well, this seems to present an opportunity, does it not?”

Like an hourglass being flipped, the way Crowley saw the situation rapidly spun round. This wasn’t another hookup where he had to tread carefully around his own body. This was _Aziraphale_ , who had never made Crowley feel like he needed to change anything about himself, who Crowley wasn’t _completely_ certain even had a serious gender of his own, who was nevertheless hundreds of years old and soft and steady and fierce and who, of course, _drank blood_.  

“Oh,” Crowley said, by way of summing all of that up. Soft, surprised, and suddenly, quietly, interested. A small smile touched Aziraphale’s lips as he caught the change in mood.

“Yes?”

“Oh,” Crowley said again. “Yeah, uh… yeah.”

“Don’t get lost,” Aziraphale cautioned, palming Crowley’s vulva through his trousers as if he’d been waiting for years to do so. Crowley gasped, twitched into the touch. “I’ll need you to tell me if I need to stop.”

“I’m ready,” Crowley said. He wanted to be embarrassed again at how quickly that statement had become true, but something about Aziraphale’s gaze made it so hard to remember why he should ever be embarrassed by anything. They were so close now that it was nothing for Aziraphale’s other hand to find the small of Crowley’s back, nothing for Crowley to touch his lips to Aziraphale’s throat as he wound his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders. Then they were half-walking, half-stumbling together, clumsily navigating the stairs between messy kisses against the walls, banister pressing into Crowley’s back, Crowley pressing into Aziraphale. Five steps from the top something confusing and very fast happened, making Crowley suspect Aziraphale of cheating as in a dizzying whirl they were suddenly on the bed. Crowley fell back against the pillows as Aziraphale’s hands skimmed his hips, undoing his trousers and pulling them away.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, voice thready and hoarse. Aziraphale looked up, his expression moving from rapturous to tender as he leaned up to kiss Crowley, entirely abandoning his other task. Crowley shoved both hands into Aziraphale’s hair and held him there, hooking an ankle over his leg to get even closer. 

“Remember, we don’t have to do this, my dear,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, working the words out in between kisses.

“You’d better do this,” Crowley groaned, tipping his head back as he allowed Aziraphale’s lips to leave his, letting him move to his jaw and neck instead. “Just needed that first.” Aziraphale chuckled, warm breath against his skin, and tugged at the hem of Crowley’s shirt. They separated long enough for Crowley to wiggle out of it. Aziraphale had gotten out of his own vest and had started on the buttons of his shirt when Crowley surged up to kiss him again, distracting him. 

“Not that I don’t love to see you undressed, angel, but right now I need you to get on with it before I lose my nerve.”

“You really want this?” Aziraphale asked, fingertips pressed so lightly to Crowley’s hip bones.

“I want this,” Crowley affirmed, his hands finding their anchor point in Aziraphale’s hair again as Aziraphale repositioned himself, lifting Crowley’s hips to take off his underwear and leave him bare.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale said, quiet and reverent. Crowley let his head fall back and his eyes close. He didn’t want to see, wanted only the feeling of Aziraphale’s mouth, wanted the feelings of blood and other types of wet to become indistinguishable. He wanted to just feel as though he was giving Aziraphale a gift, feel Aziraphale’s thanks with every divine flick of his tongue, and not think about where any of it came from.  

It was only moments before sensation banished any lingering snags of nervousness or dysphoria. Crowley never, ever could have imagined it could be this good, not even if he’d had all of Aziraphale’s five hundred years to think about it. The sweep of Aziraphale’s tongue obliterated the knots of pain in his abdomen, turning them to sparks of euphoria as Crowley’s muscles tightened and released in response. The occasional sharp edge of teeth was the spark of danger Crowley loved, just quick pinpricks of pleasure alighting at unpredictable intervals. And the _sounds_ Aziraphale was making, even muffled as they were, the sounds alone and the vibration that came with them. Aziraphale had told him not to get lost, but Crowley was having trouble following that directive. His peak exploded in his head and his hips jerked up involuntarily, bumping into Aziraphale’s mouth. There was a slightly sharper pain and he could have sworn Aziraphale muttered _oops_ before he felt the healing sting of his tongue.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley opened his eyes with an effort. Aziraphale had raised his head and was looking up at him, looking completely debauched-- pupils blown, cheeks flushed, his hair a whirlwind in Crowley’s hands and his mouth and chin a mess of red. Crowley felt distantly that he should be disgusted again, but it was _Aziraphale_ and Crowley was floating and it wasn’t disgusting or dysphoria-inducing at all. All he could feel was the post-orgasmic tremor of his muscles, the soaring euphoria of making Aziraphale _look like that_ , and a deep, still new, but ever-growing, sense of love.  

He didn’t realize that the only response he’d given Aziraphale was a dopey smile until Aziraphale wiped his mouth carelessly on his sleeve and wriggled up to curl around Crowley, chin nestled at his shoulder. Crowley could feel his hardness between them, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, or simply had more important things on his mind at the moment.

“Crowley,” he said again, more sternly now, and this time Crowley was able to summon enough breath to sigh happily. Aziraphale’s hand curved gently around his face. 

“I’m going to need more than that,” he said gently. Crowley, with effort, turned the sigh into a groan.

“Demanding,” he managed at last. He turned his head so that he was speaking against Aziraphale’s forehead. “M’ an invalid. M’ indi _ss_ posed.” He lisped a bit on the last word, too sleepy to care.

“Don’t be silly, dearest,” Aziraphale murmured, impossibly fond. “It’s a perfectly normal biological process.”

“Not for me,” Crowley muttered, feeling the slightest edge of the old dysphoria slide again into his brain. Aziraphale, as if sensing it, held him closer.

“It’s _just_ you, being alive,” he said into Crowley’s neck, kissing there to punctuate the sentence. “Beautiful.”

“It’s nice,” Crowley said. The floating feeling was subsiding, leaving a new one that was strange and fluttery and might make him cry if he thought about it too much, which was why he was determined to drift off to sleep instead. “Thinking of it like that.”

“Then do,” Aziraphale said. Crowley smiled faintly, turned over in Aziraphale’s arms, and within moments was asleep. 


End file.
